


the scene at the bottom of the stairwell

by ceserabeau



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Addams Family Fusion, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8575354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: “Stay away from the Hales,” Scott tells him on his first day at school. “They’re weird.” Or, Stiles and his dad moves to Beacon Hills. His neighbours are pretty weird.





	

“Stay away from the Hales,” Scott tells him on his first day at school. “They’re weird.”

“They’re not that weird,” Stiles says. “Mrs Hale brought us a casserole.”

Scott snorts. “You might want to check it. The one they brought us when my dad left had entrails.”

Stiles frowns; he can’t tell if Scott’s being serious. “Entrails,” he says, “Sure.”

He checks the casserole when he gets home. It doesn’t have entrails, but it does have eyeballs. He pokes one with a fork to watch it explode.

 

 

He sees the Hales at lunch a few days later. They look out of place in the cafeteria: pale and mysterious, surrounded by all this colour and noise. Scott’s waving at him from two tables over, but Stiles slides into the spare seat next to Derek anyway. Cora raises her eyebrows at him across the table.

“So,” Stiles says, stabbing a fork into his meatloaf, “I heard some noises last night.”

Derek sprinkles something onto his food from a glass bottle; he slides it across to Cora before Stiles can see the label. “That was dad.”

“Your dad was blowing stuff up?”

Cora shrugs. “He was playing with his trains,” she says. “He does that when he’s mad.”

“Trains.” Stiles pushes the meatloaf around his plate; it tastes as gross as it looks. “That makes sense.”

Derek nudges his elbow, and when Stiles looks he’s glancing shyly at him through his lashes. “Did you like the casserole?” he asks.

“Yeah, it was…” Stiles ponders how to describe it: bizarre, gross, intriguing. “It was something.”

Derek smiles, a sweet curl to his lips that makes Stiles’ heart flutter. “It’s my favourite recipe,” he says.

Scott’s still waving at him, increasingly frantic, but Stiles stays right where he is. People might think the Hales are weird, but he’ll eat lunch with them every day if he gets to see that smile on Derek’s face again.

 

 

“Did you eat the whole casserole?” Dad asks. He’s making coffee; another night shift again. “I wanted some of that.”

Stiles thinks of the casserole, at the bottom of the trash. No way Dad was going to see that. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “Fine. But you’re taking the dish back.”

Stiles dutifully takes the dish back.

Mrs Hale beams widely at him when she opens the door. Stiles only saw her over Dad’s shoulder before, a flash of a scarlet smile.  Up close, she’s much more interesting: skin so pale it seems luminous, dark hair cascading in a wave over her shoulders. He definitely knows where Derek and Cora get their looks from.

“Thank you, darling.” She takes the dish from him and Stiles stares at her blood-red talons against the glass. “Come on in. Derek and Cora are in the dungeon. Mind the stairs, they’re slippery.”

He follows where she points, down a long flight of stairs to a dark basement that smells like rot and damp. Behind a huge iron door, Cora is standing on a stool, pulling levers on a circuit board, and Derek is – Derek is strapped to a chair. An electric chair. Stiles didn’t even know they made those any more.

“Uh.” He steps further into the room. “What are you doing?”

Cora raises an eyebrow. “Electrocuting him.”

“Why?”

Cora’s other eyebrow shoots up. “To kill him. Obviously.”

Stiles looks at Derek. He doesn’t seem in the slightest bit bothered that Cora’s threatening him with death. If anything, he seems excited.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can take it.”

Cora pulls the first lever, the second; Stiles can hear the electricity humming through the wires. “You want to try?”

Stiles wonder what the right answer is to that question. Does he want to see Derek writhe, to see his body light up? Does he want to hear him scream?

He takes too long to answer: “Children,” a voice calls from downstairs, “Do you want arsenic or cyanide with your dinner?”

“Arsenic,” Cora yells back. She sighs, takes her hands off the levers. “I guess we’ll have to do this later. Sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles sighs in relief. “Don’t worry about it.”

Derek makes an annoyed sound. Stiles tilts his head to watch him pull at the straps holding him down: they strain, then snap.

“Huh,” Stiles says. “You’re really strong.”

Derek smiles. His teeth look strangely sharp. “I know.”

 

 

Dad’s lacing up his boots when Stiles stumbles into the kitchen in the morning. “How’s school?” he asks as Stiles pours himself a bowl of Captain Crunch. “Are you settling in okay?”

“It’s good,” Stiles tells him. “I even made some friends.”

“Good,” Dad says; “That’s really good.”

He watches Dad putter around, his normal work routine. It feels how it did before, in their old house in San Diego, with the sea outside, making the air smell salty and fresh. It feels almost normal, like the pieces the move upset are slotting back into place.

“What do you think of the neighbours?” Dad asks as he shrugs on his coat. “They seem a bit strange. I saw the dad playing golf on the roof.”

Stiles laughs. “You just wish you could play golf on the roof.”

Dad nods along, mouth pulling up into a smile. “Very true. See you later.” A moment later he’s gone.  

Stiles thinks about them, the Hales, their dark eyes, their sharp smiles, their old house that creaks in the wind. Are they strange? It doesn’t seem it to him, but maybe he just can’t see it. Maybe he’s strange too.

“ _Fore_ ,” someone cries from outside. The golf ball that smashes through the window lands right in Stiles’ cereal.

 

 

Derek texts him after school: _bored._ _come over_.

He’s smiling when he opens the door for Stiles, two rows of little white teeth. Stiles can’t stop staring.

“Hey,” Cora says over Derek’s shoulder. “Took you long enough.”

They take him on a tour of the house, down endless corridor with wood panelling, red carpets, thick curtains over the windows. They show him painting after painting, their family history in oil and ink and watercolour. Stiles stops in front of the big one outside the library: a woman in a dark dress, surrounded by flames, her face twisted in a scream. He presses his face against it; it smells like smoke and burnt meat.

“Who’s that?” he asks.

“Great Aunt Calpurnia.” Derek reaches out to touch the flames, where the oil is thickest. “She was burned as a witch. They say she dug up a hundred corpses and bewitched a priest.”

Cora pulls a face. “Mom said I’m not allowed to do that until after college.”

There’s a strange grating sound from the end of the corridor; when Stiles looks, there’s a man walking towards them, dragging a sword behind him.

“Who’s _that_?” Stiles hisses.

“That’s Uncle Peter,” Derek whispers. “Stay away from him. He hasn’t tried to kill us in a while, so he’s probably planning something.”

“What are you kids doing?” Peter calls down the corridor. He swings the sword over his shoulder. “Have any of you seen my hatchet? This thing isn’t sharp enough to cut through bone.”

“It’s in my room,” Cora yells.

“Why did you need a hatchet?” Stiles asks as Peter walks off.

Cora rolls her eyes. “Because it’s sharp enough to cut through bone. Duh.” She shoves Stiles hard, hard enough that he stumbles into Derek. “This is _boring_. Let’s go for a swim. The swamp should still be warm enough.”

“Don’t worry,” Derek says, hands warm on Stiles’ waist, “I won’t let the alligators get you.”

 

 

If anyone looks for Stiles at the weekend, they can always find him at the Hale house. He likes ganging out there while his Dad is at work, when his house is quiet and empty. Him and Cora spend long days exploring the house, digging things out of cupboards and from under beds. He feels like an explorer, uncovering the history of the Hales: family heirlooms, antique furniture, medieval weaponry; on one occasion, a body.

At lunchtime, Mrs Hale makes them sandwiches; lettuce and liver, egg and entrails. She holds up jars for Stiles to choose toppings from: pickles, ground glass, mayonnaise, worms. Him and Cora eat them in the living room, watching Peter through the window. He’s digging a grave in the cemetery.

“It’s probably for me,” Cora says. Outside, Peter flings dirt in a wide arc. “He’s still mad I borrowed his hatchet. He doesn’t like to share.”

Someone snorts. When they turn, there’s a woman by the door: dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes, the palest skin Stiles has ever seen: Laura, back from college for the weekend.

“He’s always been like that,” she says. “I borrowed a chainsaw once and he scalped me in retaliation. It took six months for my hair to grow back.”

Cora grins. “I remember that. You looked like Vin Diesel.”

“Gee, thanks.” Laura’s gaze finally slides to Stiles, carefully picking a stray worm out of his sandwich. “I’m Laura. Who are you?”

“Stiles.”

“ _Oh_.” Her eyes are bright and knowing; never a good thing on a Hale. “You’re Derek’s friend.”

There’s something about the way she says it that makes Stiles uncomfortable. She says it like it tastes sour, like she wants to spit it out. He’s never heard anyone say it that way before.

Cora growls. “He was my friend first.”

Laura tuts, a perfect impression of her mother. “She’s just jealous,” she stage-whispers to Stiles, “Because Derek can shift. It’s the one thing she can’t do.”

“Shift?” Stiles asks faintly.

“I’m not jealous,” Cora says around a mouthful. She slurps a worm up into her mouth. “I’m fine with my fire. Derek can’t do that.”

Laura makes a disbelieving noise, taps her nails on the doorframe. They’re bright red like her mom’s. “Sure. That’s why you barbequed Derek last full moon.”

Her eyes flit from Cora to Peter outside, still shovelling dirt, back to Stiles. Something in her gaze makes him feel pinned to the couch like a bug to a board.

“Just so you know,” she says slowly, “Derek doesn’t make friends easily. If you hurt him, I’ll let Peter kill you. They’ll never find your body.”

Stiles splutters. Something hurts in his chest, a sharp stab of anger that she thinks he’d hurt Derek. “My dad’s the Sherriff,” he says eventually. “He’ll arrest you.”

Laura laughs at him. “That’s cute. I see why he likes you.”

 

 

“Hey,” a familiar voice says when Stiles is coming out of his last class. He looks up to find Derek leaning against the lockers. “You want a ride home?”

Stiles nods, lets Derek take his hand and lead him out into the parking lot, over to the huge black car parked by the treeline. Cora’s already in the back seat, cleaning her nails with a knife. She pulls a face at Stiles through the window.

“You can sit up here,” Derek says as he slides in. He pats the seat next to him. “Cora might bite you if you sit with her.”

Cora bares her teeth, so Stiles gets in with Derek, sliding over the worn leather until he can feel the heat of him along his side. It smells a bit strange, like damp earth, like a fresh grave – but Stiles can’t mind when Derek smiles at him, his hand brushing Stiles’ knee when he changes gears. He likes this too much, being pressed up against Derek, close enough that he could reach out and touch.

Cora kicks the back of his seat. “I took out the stop sign at the crossroads,” she says as they pull out of the school gates. “Try not to crash. It’s only funny when the trucks do it.”

 

 

Sometimes Derek invites him over to do homework. He leads Stiles up to the library, with its stained-glass window, its huge armchairs, its endless shelves of books. “Make yourself at home,” he says. “I’ll get some drinks.”

Stiles curls up on the couch, investigating the books while he waits for Derek to come back. _Gone With The Wind_ buffets him with a blast of air. Music floats up from _A Christmas Carol_.

“I wouldn’t open that one if I were you,” someone says when Stiles touches the spine of _Fight Club_. “Packs quite a punch.”

Mr Hale is leaning against a bookshelf in his sharp suit, hair slicked back. Stiles doesn’t see him often, normally up on the roof hitting golf balls towards his house. He’s pretty sure he’s as old as Dad, but he also witnessed him backflip off the second floor balcony the other day so maybe not.

Stiles gives him an awkward smile. He’s not good with parents, they always think he’s weird. Maybe he won’t have that problem here.

“Hey,” he says, and carefully slides the books back onto the shelf. “I was just, uh, reading?”

Mr Hale just smiles indulgently. “You know,” he says, and slides onto the couch next to Stiles, “It’s nice to have some fresh blood in the house. Even if you are the Sherriff’s son.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing to apologise for.” Mr Hale slaps him on the shoulder, jovially. “You’re not like the other friends Derek’s had.”

Stiles frowns; where is this conversation going? “I’m not?”

“I see a lot of myself in you,” Mr Hale says. He laughs, a big booming noise. “I pretended to be normal for a long time, Stiles. It was meeting Talia that made me realise that I’m abnormal.”

Stiles blinks at him. Abnormal; now there’s a word. He feels like he should be protesting, claiming his normality, but there’s a glint in Mr Hale’s eyes that says he knows Stiles would be lying.

“How did you and Mrs Hale meet?” he asks as a distraction.

It works: Mr Hale beams. “It was an evening much like this. Magic in the air. A boy, a girl, an open grave. She was so beautiful. No one even looked at the corpse.” He winks at Stiles. “She bewitched me.”

“Literally?”

Mr Hale laughs. “She only does that to people she doesn’t like.”

In the corridor, the floorboards creak and groan as footsteps sound: Derek coming back. If Stiles listens carefully he can hear the clink of mugs; Derek’s made him tea. Next to him, Mr Hale smiles again, knowing.

“It’s nice to see Derek happy,” he says as he gets up. “We don’t love easily in this family. But when we do – it’s magical.”

 

 

One day in November Derek doesn’t come into school. Stiles ask Cora about it in third period math.

“It’s the full moon,” she says, and taps his test. “What did you get for question three?”

“Y equals seven. What about the full moon?”

“Mr Stilinski,” his teacher snaps. “Is there something you want to share?”

When Stiles looks up the whole class if glaring at then, so he shakes his head, drops it.

He’s still thinking about it later though, after lacrosse practice, after he’s done his homework, after he’s fed Dad and shoved him out the door to work. When he looks out the window, the Hale house looks eerie in the moonlight.

He finds Derek sitting in the graveyard, his back to the tombstone of Uncle Peter’s first wife. Stiles crouches down in front of him and bats Derek’s hands away when he tries to cover his face. Finally, he gets to see what’s bothering him: the long canines, the pointed ears: Derek is apparently a wolf.

“What are you doing here?” Derek growls. His eyes flare bright blue.

Stiles rolls his eyes; is that meant to be scary? “You weren’t at school. I was worried.”

Derek makes a strange sound. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.” He hunches his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible; Stiles has never seen him like this, something other than calm and confident. “I didn’t want you to think I was a monster.”

Stiles’ brain stutters to a halt. “ _What_?” Derek just curls in on himself even more. “No, dude, I think you’re interesting. I think your family’s interesting.”

Derek glances up, eyes glowing so bright Stiles is blinded. “Really? Most people think we’re strange. That we're medical experiments. That we should be studied.”

Stiles feels sick to his stomach. Who would say something like that? Who would be that cruel? “Who told you that?” he asks. He’s so angry, his voice is shaking.

“Kate,” Derek says. “She was my – friend.”

Stiles remembers Laura’s dark gaze, her tone when she called him Derek’s _friend_. “Oh.”

“She tried to burn the house down.”

Stiles snorts, rolls his eyes; that would never work. “What an idiot.”

Derek smiles but it’s weak, shaky; he’s not convinced. So Stiles sinks to his knees, damp earth against his jeans, to take Derek’s hands in his own. He can feel the shape of claws against his skin.

“Derek, I don’t think you’re weird.” He huffs a laugh. “I mean, you’re not normal. But being normal is boring.”

“You’re normal,” Derek says. “You’re not boring.”

Stiles scoffs. “I’m not normal.” He leans in close so he can tell Derek his secrets: “I have a police scanner in my room. I read my dad’s case files all the time. One time, I found a dead body in the woods and I didn’t call it in for twenty minutes because I was so fascinated.”

Derek finally looks at him properly, face open and honest, that same sweet smile breaking across his lips. Even though his eyes are blue and his teeth are sharp and his face is extra hairy, Stiles can still see Derek, even under all of that fur.

“I’m not normal,” Stiles says again. “I’m abnormal.”

“Abnormal,” Derek repeats. He sounds excited; he sounds gleeful.

Stiles laughs, and presses his fingers to Derek’s teeth until he feels blood against his skin. “Don’t pretend for a second you thought I wasn’t.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard Siken, _Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out_.


End file.
